Broken Reality
by Miscruft
Summary: Dr Frederick Alcwyn is an esteemed psychiatrist. His career had been prestigious, that was until he was assigned to a new patient, a young schoolgirl with parents incredibly concerned about her mental health. At first, he dismisses her case as common teenage angst. But soon, he realizes there may be something much more sinister going on. He endeavors to save her from herself.
1. One

She stares me with an expression of pure loathing, her viridescent eyes radiating dislike. They resemble two brilliant, emerald orbs, shining with their own luminescence as if they were a fissure in this reality, a gateway to another world.

I sift through her file, briefly scanning over the various notes I made at our previous sessions. I can feel her eyes bore into me, to such an extent that I am discouraged from putting down the file and looking up at her. I clench my jaw. Ever since our first session, I've always had mixed feelings at the prospect of having to deal with her. She was without a shadow of a doubt the most challenging patient I've ever been assigned to. That idea was disconcerting in itself. She was but a schoolgirl, I've had to deal with much worse than her. Paranoid Schizophrenics, Manic Depressives, P.T.S.D-affected. Hell, I've even had one with D.I.D who had several different personalities. Yet this girl, who hadn't even graduated high school, outdid them all.

The things that came out of her mouth were unlike anything I'd ever heard from anyone before. The subtle smirk she would give me after asking about my well-being or my family made me shift uncomfortably in my seat. Her polite laugh after making some quip caused me to cringe. The way in which she would rest her head upon her interlocked fingers and study me with what looked like pity disconcerted me. That vehement gaze with those eyes that burned green flames unnerved me. Sometimes, she appeared to look straight through me. Her eyes masked something, something profound that only she knew. Something so horrible, an idea so appalling that it would inevitably drive any ordinary person to and over the brink of insanity. But if I have learnt one thing from the time I've spent with her over the past month, it's that this girl is no ordinary person.

"So, are we going to do anything today?" Her sweet, serene tones drift across the room, straying into my ears and resonating around my skull, bringing me out of my contemplative trance. With great reluctance, I force myself to look up at her.

"Alright." I heave a deep sigh. "How are we today, Monika?"

I take the cap off my pen and carefully place it on the desk in front of me. Flicking to a new sheet of paper in my notebook, I look up at her expectantly. As always, she takes her time. Finally, she speaks.

"I tried some of the coping techniques you gave me." She places great emphasis on the word "coping", only strengthening my belief that she doesn't take me or these sessions seriously whatsoever.

"You did?" I replied, absentmindedly jotting her words down in my notebook. "Which ones?"

"I thought the meditation was stupid." She states bluntly, giving me an accusatory look. "But, I thought the writing one was quite good."

"You've been writing poetry?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Don't look so surprised." She responded indignantly. "I'm more that just a pretty face." She flashed me one of her brilliant smiles.

"I'm well aware of that." I muttered to myself, looking back down at my notes. "So, what have you been writing?" As if that was a cue, she sprung into action, reaching into her school bag. Evidently, as it was a dreary and oppressively warm Tuesday afternoon, she had come straight from her school to the clinic. She pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to me. Reaching over the desk, I took it out of her hands. Holding it up to the crimson-hued sunlight of dusk, I peered at her minute, neat handwriting. Monika exploded.

"Don't read it now!" She exclaimed, grabbing hold of my forearm and attempting the pull the paper away from me. Instinctively, I jumped to my feet and ripped my arm out of her grip. I stared at her with a mixture of confusion and anger. That was definitely out of character for her. Why the hell would she react like that? Up until now I had played the role of the kind, understanding and good psychiatrist, now it was time to be the professional, cold and generally bad psychiatrist.

"Don't you dare touch me like that." I spat. The girl sunk back into her seat. For the first time ever, she was the one to avert her gaze.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you Monika." To my surprise, she obeyed. "If you touch me like that again, you will be straight out of this clinic and I personally assure you that your parents will be made aware of exactly why. Do you understand me?" I spoke with an intensity I was not aware I possessed, but it did the trick. She looked up at me with a dejected and slightly fearful expression.

"Yes. I'm sorry, Mr Alcwyn."

"That's Dr Alcwyn to you." I asserted, sitting back down.

"I'm sorry, Dr Alcwyn."

I knew she didn't like these sessions. I knew she didn't like me. I knew she didn't really take them seriously. I knew her parents had forced her into them. Maybe that's what had struck a nerve, her parents. Clearly the only reason she was here was to humour them. When her parents (or her mother, her father was away on business trips most of the time) had first come to see me last month, they had expressed legitimate concerns about their daughter's mental health on account of the worrying things they found she had written in her diary. They had promised to find it for me and to bring it with them before her first session for me to analyze. I had said this was unnecessary, and would be a breach of privacy for her. Usually, I would never refuse the chance to see the inner workings of my patients, however, I admit, upon first impressions I didn't take Monika's case very seriously. I've had plenty of parents in the past come to me worried about how their edgy teenage children are posting "alarming" things on social media, getting in fights or just aren't doing well in school. I usually take them on for one session, ask them several questions, realise they have absolutely nothing wrong with them and are putting on an act for attention, and send them away telling their parents they're completely fine.

When her mother came a second time, bringing Monika with her, I had expected to go through the same drill with her. I quickly realised that this would not be the case, that there was something genuinely wrong with her mental state. She obviously appeared to be putting on an aura of indifference towards everything. In that first session, there were several times in which she let her guard down. These periods ranged from a split second to around ten seconds. Nevertheless, the damaged and terrified young girl that I saw sitting before me when she failed to put on that mask of detachment worried me beyond comprehension. Her mother had mentioned that one of the lines in her diary had read something like "this world was forged just to torture me, it's one cruel joke, I cannot even accomplish what I was made to do." I remember asking her how she feels the world torments her. The utterly distraught look that flashed across her face is now ingrained into my memory. One second it was there, the next, the farce was up again, and she was as indifferent as ever, speaking nonsense about how she didn't really mean it. I remember I scheduled another session immediately for the following week. Since then, over the past month, I had been trying to break through her façade of impartiality. Recently though, it had been to no avail, she was clearly a very good actress. This was exactly why it was imperative that I capitalise on this moment, now that she was off guard, and see if I could delve any deeper into the situation at hand.

"Why did you do that, Monika?" I asked, being very careful to make my voice appear as calm and composed as possible. I put down my notepad and concentrated solely on her.

"I just… wanted to get the most… you know… out of this session." She sounded completely unsure of herself, her act was falling apart.

"Monika." She looked back up at me. "That's bullshit." Monika paused, and then slowly nodded in agreement. I pressed on. "Why did you do that?" She seemed to freeze up, her expression was pensive and despairing at the same time, she was deep in thought. An entire minute passed. I was willing to give her all the time in the world, if it just meant she would give me an insight into what was going on inside her head. Eventually she spoke. Every word seemed to have been chosen very carefully by her.

"Have you ever had something in your life happen that fundamentally changed you, either for better, or for worse?" I did not expect a direct question from her, but I went along with it.

"Yes, I believe I have."

"What was it?" I was taken aback. I never answered personal questions about myself from my patients, that was my job. I paused and thought for a moment, bad memories began to flood back into my head depicting the less savory moments of my life. I clenched my fists, my desire to help this girl certainly outweighed my longing to forget the event I was about to recall. Nevertheless, if this was the way she felt comfortable conveying her feelings to me, I would play her game.

"My sister used to have fits. I must have been eleven years old when I witnessed a particularly bad one." Images of her violently convulsing on the floor appeared in my head. I forced them away, I needed to stay professional. "Long story short, she suffered irreparable brain damage. She was placed in a medically induced coma and died a few weeks after." Monika looked at me sadly.

"I'm sorry… I didn't…"

"What's your point?" I interrupted her. She sighed, and briefly wiped her eyes. I noticed she was on the verge of tears.

"So… your sister… what happened… she changed you, right?"

"Yes."

"What if… you found out that… not just her, but everyone. Everyone had never…they had never even…been…" Monika looked like she was on the brink of a breakdown. I felt I was on the brink of a breakthrough.

"Take your time."

"What if you found out that it didn't mean anything?" She suddenly blurted out.

"What do you mean?"

"When your sister died! What if you found out that it didn't mean anything, that it wasn't important, that she wasn't even there in the first place." Monika looked at me with wide eyes and immediately put both her hands over her mouth. I could only stare at her with a shocked expression. Did she just insinuate that not only did one of my most potent memories have no meaning, but that it didn't even happen? I was thoroughly confused.

"Are you saying…" I paused and composed myself. "Are you saying you believe that life truly has no meaning?" Nothing would have pleased me more than for her to say yes. If she did, it would be a simple case of a young girl with a nihilistic viewpoint experiencing existential dread. That could be sorted out with proper counselling. If she didn't, this problem could be even more serious than I originally thought.

"No." She whispered. "That's not what I said." My heart sank. She took her hands away from her mouth. She blinked away the salty fluid now coating her eyelids. Gritting her teeth, she continued.

"You have memory of the event in which…"

"In which my sister died, yes." I didn't want to rush her, but I couldn't help but desire to understand her point of view as quickly as possible.

"But do you feel it?"

"What?" This was unknown territory for me, I had never been asked to open up to a patient like this, what was she trying to accomplish here?

"Her death, the pain that you felt when it happened. Can you remember feeling it?" She looked at me, desperation written on her face.

"Well of course I feel pain when I remember it…"

"No. Forget about what you feel now, do you remember feeling… pain, feeling broken when it actually happened?" I opened my mouth to assert the obvious fact that I had felt sorrow at the time of my sister's death.

But I could not.

My body froze up. I knew I should say yes, who wouldn't feel sadness at the time of a relative's death. That was a fundamental part of the process of grief. I realised and felt the pain at the concept of her dying, but I found I could not recall anything from the event in terms of emotions, I could only remember the course of what had occurred. Come to think of it, I could not even remember with clarity the events that had happened. It was as though someone had taken my memory and turned it into a rushed and shoddily written piece of script.

I couldn't bring myself to say anything. Monika's eyes seemed to light up.

"Can you remember it?" She was on the edge of her seat, staring at me intently. I opened my mouth to reply.

Without warning, I was interrupted by the announcement system, which asked me to report to reception. By the time the obnoxious receptionist had finished talking, Monika seemed to have receded back into herself.

"Monika." She looked up at me. To my utter disappointment, I saw her wearing the mask of indifference once more. I would be getting nothing else out of this conversation. I silently cursed the receptionist who had interrupted us. I sighed deeply.

"We're going to have to end this here. I'll schedule us another appointment for next Tuesday. How does that sound?"

"Fine." Monika replied, once again seemingly uninterested. I was disheartened to say the least, I felt like a complete failure. I had been so close to understanding her thought process. Nevertheless, I had a lot to think about. She stood up, picking up her bag.

"Keep it up with the poetry, I'll make sure to read this before our next meeting." She glanced up at me as if suddenly remembering something.

"Oh yeah, about that, can I schedule our next session for a bit later in the afternoon?" She asked earnestly.

"Yes, of course, how does seven o'clock sound?"

"Perfect." She gave a small smile and turned to make her way out.

"May I ask why?" I called after her. She stopped at the door and turned to look at me.

"Oh, it's nothing special, I'm just thinking of starting a club at my school."

"That sounds like a great idea!" I muster up as much enthusiasm as possible. "What kind of club are you thinking of?" The girl with the long, auburn hair tied up in a white bow pondered for a moment. At last, she responded.

"A Literature Club."

With that, she walked out the door, shutting it firmly behind her.


	2. Two

I had been sat here for nearly four hours now, just staring at it. It was balanced conspicuously in the middle of all the other folders on the shelves of my office. It seemed to beckon to me in an alluring fashion, calling out for me to open it up and discover the terrible secrets it held within its words. It stood out easily amongst the rest simply on account of the name written on its side.

Patient #186 – Monika Naomi

Monika.

I couldn't get that name out of my head.

It was a Saturday, which made it four days since the interview on that insipid Tuesday afternoon. There was no reason for me to come into the Clinic today. This was usually my day off. I never took any appointments on Saturdays, I used them to check in on my parents. I had decided that I would come into work today to review some of my cases and reschedule several sessions for next week. I tried to convince myself that was the reason I was neglecting visiting them. I attempted to persuade myself it had nothing to do with that girl. But I was lying to myself. I knew in my heart of hearts why I had come into work today instead of visiting Ma and Da. It wasn't because I had extra work to catch up on. It wasn't because I really needed to reschedule anything.

It was because the prospect of going back to my childhood home terrified me now.

"Dr Alcwyn."

I leapt to my feet and spun around to face the door, my heart suddenly hammering relentlessly against my ribcage. It was Samantha Clarke, that damned receptionist. By god I disliked that woman at the moment.

"It's not against the law to knock once in a while Sam." The lady with the short cut blonde hair and a face moulded in a permanent scowl frowned. She hated being called Sam.

"I did knock, like ten times. You were completely out of it."

"Maybe you should've used the Tannoy system then, that's usually very effective in getting my attention, not to mention the attention of my patients." I had made it very clear to her after what had happened on Tuesday that she was never to use the announcement system whilst I was conducting a session ever again. Samantha scowled even more, if that was even possible.

"Look I said I was sorry."

"Apologising doesn't change the fact that I was verge of a breakthrough with one of my most significant subjects, and you fucking ruined it!" I bellowed at her before collapsing back into my chair, letting my head rest in my hands. A blanket of silence fell across the room, smothering everything. At last, she spoke.

"Dr Alcwyn I…"

"No, Samantha... look I'm sorry, that was unnecessary. You're doing a great job." I removed my face from my hands, and looked tiredly at the short, rotund receptionist. Her face softened.

"Frederick… you look awful." I felt my brow furrow. In the four years we had been working together she had practically never referred to me by my first name. That was a major breach of our professional work relationship. Nevertheless, I couldn't bring myself to rebuke her for it. The way she said it, I couldn't be angry with her. It sounded terribly familiar. Just like how she would say it.

Memories began to fill my head. Memories of the good old days when everything was simple, when my grasp of reality consisted of nothing more than getting up early in the morning and going down to the park with her to feed the ducks. I remembered how she would call my name and giggle as we ran through the various assemblies of pigeons, or how we would climb the tallest of trees so we could see the sprawling landscape for miles around us. I remember it all, but most of all I remember the feeling of it. I remember it so clearly now, I remember feeling…

Nothing.

I remember feeling absolutely nothing. Just like she had said. Even when the person closest to me was dying in front of my eyes, I felt nothing. I didn't even feel numb, or shocked, there was just a void in my emotional memory, an absence of feeling.

"Dr Alcwyn?"

I realised Samantha had been speaking this whole time.

"Yes Samantha?"

"You should probably go home and get some rest." She looked genuinely worried about me. I forced a smile.

"Yes… I think I'll do just that." She bowed her head and turned to leave the office.

"Samantha." I called after her.

"Yes Dr Alcwyn?"

"Thank you." A look of surprise flashed across her face. She opened her mouth to reply, decided better of it, and simply nodded in acknowledgement. She walked out, shutting the door gently behind her.

As soon as the door was closed I jumped to my feet, pivoting round I strode over to the cabinet and grabbed the file titled Patient #186. Slipping it into my bag, I shut my computer down. I slung the bag over my shoulder and snatched my phone off the table. Half-jogging over to the door, I slipped out, locking my office behind me. Exiting the clinic, I set off in the direction of the park that I knew so well.

On the way I diverted into a café I was a regular at. It was lunchtime on a Saturday, so it was practically heaving with people. As I waited in the lengthy queue, I scanned my surroundings. There were people from all walks of life accumulated in this area: Teenagers, Single Mothers, Manual Labourers, Hippie Writers and… couples. Lots and lots of couples. A momentary wave of desolation disguised as nausea surged through my thorax. I swallowed dolefully.

I reckoned I was pretty young for an eminent psychiatrist, I was twenty – six turning twenty – seven next month. I had been board-certified for nearly four years now, nevertheless I believed my career was still in its early stages. I remember when I graduated high school I had refused to take a gap year. I had wanted to get into training as quickly as possible. I had spent four years at University to get my degree followed by another year of additional training. Never have I worked harder in my entire life than during that five year period. It paid off, I did love my job.

The fact was I never really had much time for socialising. I had a girlfriend once, in high school. Her name was Olivia. One of the sweetest girls I've ever met. We went out for nearly two years before we broke up. We were still on good terms, it was just that we were attending Universities far away from each other, neither of us wanted to commit to a long – distance relationship.

I remembered having my first time with her. I remember it being one of the greatest experiences of my life. It was amazing, I knew it was amazing because… well… I had felt… you know… it had felt… when… it had felt so…

Nothing.

"Hello sir, can I take your order please?" A barista of bubbly temperament flashed me a cheesy smile. I pushed such thoughts to the back of my mind.

"Uhhhh… yeah, sorry. Could I please get a large Latte."

"Large Latte coming right up." She gave me another toothy grin. "That'll be 4.50 Sir!"

What reason did she have to be so happy? I wondered if it was because she could actually remember feeling things.

No.

No I can't think like that. It'll drive me mad. This was all just me overreacting. I've never had the best memory anyway. It's all because of her. That girl. Monika. I've let her get to me. She's much smarter than I originally assumed. She manipulated me, it must be what she does. Manipulate and play with people's feelings. She probably gets a kick out of it too.

At least, that's what I told myself, the other possibility was too terrifying to consider.

I mumbled a thank you and reached into my bag to pull out my card.

There's nothing wrong with me, I'm just like everyone else.

* * *

I sat on one of the park benches overlooking the Lake. It was a fairly large body of water laden with various congregations of pond weed, each of which masked its own secret little ecosystem of amphibians, fish and insects. Gliding effortlessly on the surface of the limpid greenish water were the Swans, the monarchs of the lake. Everything they did was regal and majestic; they were proud and intelligent beings. I wondered if mental health was an issue for Swans, or if it was just us human beings that were uniquely affected by it. I wondered if Swans had memory, both linear and emotional. It's quite possible that Swans simply live in the present, not caring about the past or the future. That must be a nice way to exist. It dawned on me that psychiatrists do very little living in the present. We spend most of our time asking patients about their past, what they did over the past week or the past year, or their future, what they intend to do with their lives. Yes, it would certainly be nice to just live life without constantly reflecting on what has happened or what is to come.

I opened Monika's file. Immediately, I was faced with the poem she had given to me the other day. The one that had caused her to become nearly hysterical when I had attempted to read it. Everyday since I had promised myself that this would be the day I was going to read it. And every single day, I had put if off. The truth was, I was scared. I was terrified there would be something in there that would confirm my worst fears about the situation at hand. The possibility that sat festering in the back of my mind like a parasite, that whispered to me that detestable concept, that this may not all be in Monika's head.

I opened up the binder that held the file together and slipped the sheet out. Swiftly shutting the file with a shaking hand, I held the piece of paper in front of me. I glanced over the title:

"Passenger"

I began to read.

* * *

 _All aboard! All aboard!_

 _I call_

 _All aboard the steam train of infinite possibilities._

 _I am the driver of my own locomotive,_

 _I choose the course_

 _I decide the culmination_

 _Of our trek into the realm of hereafter._

 _So All aboard for the journey of a lifetime,_

 _For who knows where these tenebrous tunnels will take us._

* * *

 _We pick up speed as_

 _I shovel more_

 _Coals_

 _Into the burner._

 _Eventually,_

 _I will run out of fuel to burn,_

 _And my engine will cease to_

 _Pump._

 _But I don't care,_

 _For I am the driver._

 _So All aboard the steam train of infinite choices,_

 _As we drive on into the inevitable._

* * *

 _There are so many_

 _Tracks_

 _To choose from._

 _Where should we go?_

 _I know._

 _That way._

 _I haul the levers._

* * *

 _But_

 _I_

 _Can't_

 _Move._

* * *

 _You can never turn a train,_

 _It follows the tracks set for it._

 _I scream,_

 _The engine_

 _Screams louder._

 _I cry,_

 _The engine_

 _Cries louder._

 _I try to convince myself it will be fine,_

 _As I'm carried unwillingly down this line,_

 _For I am the driver._

 _So All aboard the steam train of finite possibilities._

 _As it forces us on into the_

 _Predetermined._

* * *

 _As we hurtle down the tracks of This_

 _Life,_

 _I don't know what it Is._

 _Let it be a bad dream, let it all be False._

 _Please._

 _Help._

 _I look behind me at the distorted scenery_

 _Of the past_

 _That never was._

 _It resembles a badly_

 _Written_

 _Poem._

 _The words are there,_

 _But the feeling_

* * *

 _Oblivion_

 _Abyss_

 _Nothing._

* * *

 _I listen to them._

 _It devastates me to hear the words spoken,_

 _This brutal, cold reality is now broken._

 _For I am not the driver._

 _I am the_

 _Passenger_

 _Of my own locomotive._

 _So All aboard the steam train of no choice._

 _As it drags us on into the_

 _Decided_

* * *

I finish reading and turn the page over, expecting more. But there was nothing. I was greeted by a blank script on the other side, the faint outline of her immaculate handwriting visible through the thin paper. I couldn't help but feel slightly confused by what I had just read. I had expected some terrifying truth to be laid out in a blindingly obvious format before me. But instead, she had used one, long metaphor, the steam train of "infinite possibilities". That was repeated throughout the poem, except every time it changed ever so slightly:

Infinite possibilities.

Infinite choices.

Finite possibilities.

And finally,

No choice.

Was she trying to convey the process of her realisation of some horrendous truth through the metaphor of the train? Who on earth was she referring to when she said she listened to "them" in the eighth verse? I was still thoroughly bewildered.

Something caught my eye. I looked more closely at the sixth stanza, as she writes about her hurtling down the "tracks of life". Each of the final words began with capital letters. I looked down the series of capitalised words, mumbling them to myself out loud.

"This,

Life,

Is..." I looked at the final word of the fourth line. A hidden message. Of course. For some reason, I just couldn't say it out loud like the others. There were two more words that seemed to be connected:

"Please."

"Help."

Immediately, I turned to my bag and fumbled for my notebook. In the process, the poem slipped out of my hand.

"Fuck!" I swore loudly, jumping to my feet and chasing the poem that was now threatening to be carried off by the wind and out onto the lake.

I sprinted down the moor that connected the hill with the benches and the lake. So desperate was I to retrieve that piece of paper, that I didn't notice a small girl trotting absentmindedly down the path towards me. She wore a pair of blue denim hot pants and a long-sleeved salmon-coloured shirt rolled up to her forearms, complemented by a scarlet bow in her coral pink hair. The wind changed, and carried the poem in the direction of the girl in question.

"Shit!" I saw her and attempted to stop myself before I collided with her. Unfortunately, there was no way I was going to be able to stop in time. As my body clashed with her tiny frame, I instinctively grabbed her around her waist, spinning her round so she landed on my abdomen, as opposed to the hard ground. The young woman yelped in surprise as we collapsed in a heap on the ground. I grunted as the wind was knocked out of me, a consequence of having my thorax sandwiched between the surprisingly heavy weight of the girl on top of me, and the solid ground beneath. I lay there for a second, groaning, my eyes squeezed shut. I felt the weight currently positioned on me shift.

"Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry, I didn't see you coming." A soft, shaky voice emanated from the mass on top of me. I blinked several times, opening my eyes. I was greeted by the sight of two shimmering sapphire orbs peering down at me. Her hair was a mess, it came down to her neck and hung around her forehead in a fringe, obscuring her eyebrows. Despite this, a stark contrast was drawn between her amassment of hair and her striking, azure eyes.

I suddenly remembered the poem.

"Quick! Get up!" I barked an order at her. She had barely even registered what I had said when I began to get up, practically carrying her with me. This caused her to squeal in surprise. I have to say, I was shocked with myself for manhandling this young woman in such a fashion, but that poem was an absolute priority right now. As I got to my feet, I spun round, scanning the perimeter.

Jesus Christ.

It was nowhere in sight.

"No… No… Fuck… NO!" I yelled in utter frustration. I sank to my knees and put my head in my hands. That poem was a cry for help from Monika. It was my lifeline with her. Now I had gone and lost it. I was a really shit Psychiatrist.

"Uh… are you ok? Sir?" I felt a hand being laid on my shoulder. Slowly, I took my head out of my hands and turned to face the girl I had collided with. She looked down at me with considerable concern. "Is there something I can help you with?" She spoke earnestly and gave me a small smile. She was adorable.

"Not unless you've just plucked a poem out of the air. No…" I let my head sink back into my hands. A small silence ensued. The girl let out a small giggle.

"Well, as a matter of fact, I think I just have!" I heard the rustling of paper behind me. Leaping to my feet, I spun round and snatched the sheet off of the girl. I glanced at the title.

"Passenger."

Without thinking, I pulled her into a hug. She yelped in protest. I quickly released her.

"Thank you so much! You have no idea how significant this is." I smoothed out the edges of the now slightly crumpled page.

"Jeez, certainly seems pretty important, you nearly crushed me trying to get it." The girl laughed warmly. "May I ask what it is?"

Alarm bells began to ring in my head. Doctor-patient confidentiality was an absolute number one.

"Sorry, no, it's confidential." I replied, full of self-importance.

"Oh wow, you're like with the government then, huh? I thought you said it was a poem?!" She now looked up at me in mock-awe, barely containing a laugh.

"No, I'm not with the government, I'm a psychiatrist…" The girl with the coral pink hair didn't seem to be listening.

"That writing style looks really familiar." She was looking down at the paper I was holding. Immediately, I took it out of her view, but not before she got a good look at it.

"Hold on… that's… no way… that's Monika's handwriting!"

I began to legitimately consider drowning myself in the lake adjacent to me.

"Uhhh… no it's not."

"Yeah it is! I saw her name on it anyways." The girl grinned at me in an excited fashion. Suddenly, the smile fell from her face.

"Wait, you said you're a… wait… why is Monika seeing a psychiatrist." That concerned expression was back once more. "Is she ok?" The girl seemed to be on the verge of panic, I had to calm her down.

"Ok, hold on. There's really nothing to worry about. Are you a friend of Monika's?" The girl nodded. "Once again, I want to stress that there is absolutely nothing to worry about, she is perfectly fine, alright?" The girl paused.

"Ok." She still looked incredibly worried. I began to imagine the worst cast scenario. If she went and began to tell her friends about how Monika was seeing a psychiatrist, I could lose my job, or worse, Monika could become even more affected than she already was.

"Alright, do you have a minute?"

"Uh, yeah. Why?"

"Do you think I could have a quick conversation with you, about Monika?"

"Is she going to be ok?

"Yes, she's fine, I just want to ask you a few questions." My professional aura was back once more, I felt more confident. The girl pondered for a moment.

"Alright."

"Ok. Let's start. My name's Frederick. What's your name?"

"Sayori."


	3. Three

"How well would you say you know Monika?" I flicked to a new page in my notepad and uncapped my pen.

"Um… Well I think we're really good friends. I didn't get to speak much to her over the past couple years, mainly because she's so popular at school and all."

"Would you say she has a lot of friends?"

"Oh! Yeah, definitely! Everyone loves Monika, she's always first to be invited to parties and stuff, all the boys wanna get with her, you know…" Sayori trailed off, realised what she had just said, and threw her hands over her mouth in a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. I chuckled light-heartedly.

"Don't worry, the more you can tell me, the better I can understand her situation." Sayori nodded, still blushing heavily, she opened her mouth to continue.

"Yeah… anyways, I guess we didn't talk much in our junior years, she was always with the cool kids, whereas I wasn't…" She stopped and thought for a moment. I began to get impatient.

"Popular enough?" I interjected. The girl looked up at me, bewildered.

"What?"

"You weren't popular enough to be friends with people like Monika? Is that what you're saying?"

"Well… yeah, I guess that was it…" Sayori looked slightly hurt by that sentiment. Jesus, I really need to work on my manners. This girl could potentially be a valuable source of information for me. I didn't want to scare her off, or offend her for that matter. I quickly moved the conversation on.

"But you're good friends with her now?"

"Oh yeah!" The girl immediately brightened up. This Sayori was definitely an exuberant character. Her sudden swings in mood from hurt to joviality seemed almost… suspicious.

"On the last day before spring break she put up a notice in the school hall advertising a new club. I was the first to sign up for it so I became the vice-president! It was amazing! I'd never been part of a club before so…" I interrupted her. She was definitely a talker.

"This club didn't happen to be a Literature Club, did it?" Sayori looked surprised.

"Yeah! How did you know?"

"Oh, Monika told me about it during one of our sessions." The image of the poem now stored safely in my bag surfaced in my subconscious. "Can you tell me a bit about this Club? Monika appeared rather secretive about it."

"Sure!" The girl took a deep breath and launched herself into some pre-prepared speech clearly rehearsed for anyone who had expressed interest in it. "The Literature Club is a club that runs every day after school on weekdays. Previously we didn't meet on Tuesdays but in preparation for the School Festival we decided to meet everyday!" That explains why Monika didn't tell me about this before, we only ever met on Tuesdays. "We meet in a small classroom in South Block on the second floor which is usually used for third year activities. At first we couldn't use the…" God, this girl was going on and on. I had to speed this up.

"Look Sayori, just… what kind of stuff do you actually do?"

"Oh… well we read books and discuss them. Sometimes Monika sets us writing tasks and we share them, but that's rare because Yuri and Natsuki don't really like sharing their work." Sounds scintillating.

"So you read and share books?"

"Not just books, we read and write poetry too!" That caught my attention.

"You share poetry between yourselves?"

"Well… yeah…"

"For how long?"

"What?" Sayori once again looked confused.

"How long have you been sharing poetry together?"

"Um… well since the start of summer term which is like… six months?"

"So you've been reading Monika's poetry over the course of the last six months?"

"I guess, yeah."

What I was about to do was incredibly risky. It would be a complete breach of doctor-patient confidentiality. I would be showing a medically classified document to a member of the public. This could get me sacked and struck off the board, or even worse, there was a sizable prison sentence for distributing personal documents to civilians.

"Sayori, I need you to do something for me."

"Of course Fred, what do you need?" She flashed me a smile. Ignoring the fact that she had just referred to me as Fred (I hated that nickname) I reached into my bag and pulled out the poem.

"Can I ask you to review a poem?" The girl looked puzzled.

"Uh… sure?" Gingerly, she took the poem out of my hands. "This was the one that was "confidential" huh?" She gestured to the flimsy, crumpled piece of paper.

"Yes, but I believe that you may be able to give me a valuable insight into the matter, which is why I'm giving you access to it." Sayori nodded dutifully, and began to read. We sat in silence for what must have been five minutes. I glanced from the poem to Sayori. She squinted her eyes in concentration as she scanned the page, inadvertently putting on an adorably determined expression. Soon, a frown appeared on her face. It only grew as she continued down the page. She suddenly held the paper closer to her face, her mouth forming an o-shape of bafflement.

"You finished?" I asked. The girl let the page rest on her lap and looked up and out into the lake. She stayed like that for a while.

"Sayori, you done?" I repeated. This snapped her out of her trance-like state.

"Huh?" She appeared to be dazed, as if she had just been struck in the head.

"The poem, are you finished with it?"

"Oh… yeah."

"I'm gonna ask you a few questions about it, ok?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Alright. Assuming that you've been reading her poetry over the past six months and know her style of writing, is that poem anomalous?"

"Anomalous…" Sayori still seemed as if she was coming back to her senses.

"Is that poem different from what she would usually write?" She thought carefully.

"Well… no." I felt disappointment flood my limbs. This made everything so much more difficult. Had she been struggling with this problem for longer than Sayori had known her? Was there even a problem in the first place, was this just the way the mind of Monika worked? Something told me that this couldn't be the case.

"The style is definitely Monika's." Sayori was speaking again. "It's just the content of it… it's… ah what's that word…" She trailed off once more, deep in thought.

"Describe it to me."

"Like, when you think everything's going to turn out awfully."

"Pessimistic?"

"Yeah! That's it. Monika's poems are always like, really deep and stuff. But I've never read a poem written by her that's so… bleak." Sayori looked worried again. She turned to me. "What's wrong with her Frederick?"

I wanted to reassure her that Monika was fine. That this was something that could be counselled, or remedied. That I could help her. But I would be lying. I wouldn't know where to even start with her in terms of treatment. I hadn't even been able to diagnose her yet. I looked back down at her file where I had written potential disorders that could be the cause of her deteriorating mental state. I mouthed the words to myself:

• Potential Dissociative Disorder

• Potential Mild Psychosis

• Potential Paranoia

I glanced down at the most recent "potential" diagnosis I had written down in the aftermath of reading her poem.

• Potential Mild Schizophrenia (on account of auditory hallucinations)

I scanned the list once more.

Schizophrenia? What the fuck was I thinking? Almost aggressively, I drew a thick line through it with my pen. How could I write down Schizophrenia as a potential diagnosis based on some imagery I had read in a poem? How could I be so stupid and naïve?

I knew exactly why. I just didn't want to admit it to myself. I didn't understand Monika, and it scared me. I was trying to simplify her down to labels that I could comprehend. Schizophrenia was a medical term. It had a definition. At face value, it was understandable.

Monika, on the other hand, was not.

I felt truly helpless. I had never experienced such impotency in any case before in my life. I knew I couldn't diagnose her. I had several theories as to why. Maybe she had a mix of Dissociative, Psychosis and Paranoia disorders? Maybe she had a new, officially unrecognised disorder to do with mortality and existentialism? The human mind, after all, is incredibly complex. It's a colossal over-simplification to try and categorise certain mental diseases as if they are all linear in their effects on different people.

Then there was that one, awful idea. The idea that had been rotting in the back of my mind over the course of the past week, robbing me of sleep and plaguing my daydreams with nightmarish imagery. The idea that I couldn't diagnose Monika with anything because there was nothing wrong with her, that this wasn't all in her head, that her situation wasn't a result of mental illness.

That she was right. About everything.

I still didn't have a solid grasp of what it was she had been trying to tell me. I would have to analyse the poem further later on.

I realised Sayori was still waiting for an answer. I needed to reassure her to the point where she wouldn't treat Monika any differently than before, whilst also letting her know that this was case was potentially serious.

"Thank you Sayori, you've been incredibly helpful. I need you to listen to me carefully. Monika is going to be fine. Trust me." That was a lie. "I'm just finding it slightly difficult to effectively diagnose her, which is why your input is so fundamental." And that was an understatement.

"So there is something wrong in her head?" She still looked alarmed.

"Maybe, I don't know for sure at the moment. There may be nothing essentially wrong with her mental state, it may just be a passing phase…"

"Huh, like a raincloud…" She whispered quietly to herself, interrupting me.

"Sorry?"

"Ah! Nothing! Haha..." She laughed nervously, as if she had just said something she shouldn't.

"Did you say rainclouds?" Instinctively, I looked up, but was met with the sight of a clear, blue sky.

"It's just… it's just a silly thing… you know… I say for when I get sad. You shouldn't worry about…" She trailed off once more, stumbling over her words. For some reason, alarm bells began to ring in my head.

"Do you get sad often, Sayori?" The girl with the coral pink hair suddenly looked up at me with a terrified expression.

"Me? Sad?" She put on her biggest smile. "No, no, no! I'm fine. I'm great, actually... you know..." She stopped speaking once more. She locked eyes with me. For a split-second, an agonised expression flashed across her face. Almost immediately, it was gone, and she was smiling once more. "Sorry Frederick, but I really have to be going. It's getting late and…"

"No, I completely understand." I said, eyeing her with some concern. "Before you go I'm actually going to need some way of contacting you, just in case anything changes and I need your help once more."

"Oh yes, of course! Do you want my phone number or my email?"

"I'd prefer your email."

"Why don't I give you both?" The girl beamed at me.

"That works too." I handed over a pen and my notepad for her to write down her details. Once she was done, I stood up, and took the notepad and pen back off her. I placed them in my bag and turned to look at the young woman with the azure eyes and the strawberry blonde hair.

"Of course, you're a smart girl. I don't need to stress to you how important it is you keep this situation a secret. That means no telling it to anyone, not your friends, your family, and especially not Monika." Sayori nodded responsibly.

"I promise I won't." Usually, I would make her sign a form of confidentiality to guarantee her co-operation, but for some reason, I trusted this girl. She seemed to understand the fragility of the human mental state to a level most people her age couldn't even dream of reaching.

"You can go now." I gave her a kind smile. She stood there for a second, staring at me, a sad expression written on her face. Once again, as soon as it was there, it was gone.

"Thank you Frederick, I hope to see you again soon." She turned on her heels and began to make her way back down the moor towards the lake.

"And I hope I don't." I whispered to myself. It was the sad reality of my job.

She was a lovely girl. Warm, smart, pretty and cheerful. She would do well in life. But I couldn't help but think that there was something… off about her demeanour. She was almost too happy.

I suddenly remembered something. I grabbed my bag and reached into it, pulling out a small set of cards bound together by a rubber band. I took one.

"Sayori!" I shouted. The girl stopped in her tracks and turned to look at me. I jogged down the moor and over to her. I handed her one. She took it and stared at it, an enigmatic expression on her face. Realising what it was, she looked up at me in surprise.

"Is this…"

"Yeah. So… if ever those rainclouds get a little too heavy. Just know, I'm always here." Sayori looked at me, shocked. Soon, a small smile appeared on her face. It was the most genuine one she had given me all day.

"Fred… Thank you." She cradled the business card in both hands, as if it was some precious gemstone. She went to say something else, but appeared to think better of it, and chose to just smile instead. That was all I needed.

"Alright, I've taken up enough of your time already, off you go." The girl nodded kindly and turned on her heel once again.

"Oh! Sayori!" She stopped and turned to face me once more.

"Good luck with your Literature Club."

She grinned.


	4. Four

Tucking my briefcase under my arm, I sidled into the revolving doors. Slipping out of the rotating doorway, I trudged into the oppressively sterile environment of the clinic. Flicking out my phone, I made my way past the front desk.

"Morning Samantha." I didn't bother looking up, nor did I think much of it when she didn't reply. After all, I still hadn't had my coffee yet.

I arrived outside the intricately carved oak door that guarded the entrance to my office. I fumbled for my keys. Placing them into the lock, I leaned my bodyweight into the door ever so slightly. This part of the clinic had not yet been refurbished, and the lock mechanism had seen better days, making it difficult to unlock without some force. I leant further into the door, it was being particularly tricky today.

All of a sudden, it gave way and swung open, taking me with it. I collapsed in a heap on the Persian rug that lined my office floor. Swearing loudly, I picked myself up and turned to face the door which now sagged on its old hinges.

"What the hell?" I whispered to myself. My door had been unlocked? That couldn't be. I never leave my office unlocked. I walked over to it to check the locks to see if they had been picked. Had someone tried to break into my office? This concern was quickly put to rest as I couldn't find any obvious damage to the mechanism, or the door itself. I genuinely must have just forgotten to lock it last night. I spun on my heels and began to make my way to my desk.

That was when I noticed them.

I felt a shudder violently rake itself through my body as I dropped my briefcase to the floor. A muffled clattering sound reverberated throughout the room, alerting its various occupants to my presence. My limbs were rigid with fear.

Standing around my desk, by my bookshelves, by the windows, everywhere, were people. But not just any people. They were people I knew. They were all former patients. I racked my brain for potential explanations. Rational explanations as to how these people got in here. Maybe it was a surprise party? After all, it was my birthday soon. Maybe this was their way of saying thank you? Yes. It had to be. It couldn't be anything else.

But I was wrong. Oh, so wrong.

There was something not right about them, all of them. Something that suggested to me that this was no surprise party. The way they stood, the way they talked, the way they walked, the way their faces didn't…

Oh my God. 

Their faces. 

Oh my God.

Their faces all had the same, awful design. Where their eyes should have been, there was a mass of blackness, a void, there was nothing. They had no nose, no eyebrows, no eyelashes, nothing. In the place where their mouths should have been, there was a gory slit that ran from one cheek to another, giving the effect that they all appeared to be perpetually smiling. This nightmarish fissure in their faces was encrusted with a crimson substance. I didn't have to look too closely to recognise dried blood.

Scanning the room, my eyes came to rest on a figure sitting in my seat. I felt bile rise to my throat as I laid eyes on the visage of this nightmarish parody. He wore my clothes, he possessed my frame, he had my hair, he was a carbon copy of Dr Frederick Alcwyn in practically every way.

But his face, Jesus Christ, I felt as though I was actually going to vomit. There was just oblivion, an absence of matter where his eyes were supposed to be. Blood dribbled in torrents from the laceration that served as his mouth, dripping periodically onto the white fabric of his suit or the mahogany of the desk.

They had no eyes to speak of, but they were staring right at me all the same.

The noise emanating from their slits was an appalling amalgamation of gargling and whispering. As they "spoke", blood seeped from their mouths like scarlet saliva. The volume began to rise. I could make out voices now, greetings and farewells from former patients, them talking about their families, them talking about how happy they are now. Happy.

It was becoming unbearable, a cacophony of jovial voices assaulted my ears, as if they were mocking me. I could make out some phrases.

"Can you remember it?" They whisper.

"Can you feel it?" They murmur.

"Just be happy!" They scream.

They were beginning to advance. They walked in a horrid, jolting fashion, as if their limbs had been amputated and sewn back on the wrong way round. Their abhorrent skulls twitched erratically and rabidly, whilst their torsos convulsed vehemently. I screamed, but found I could not make any noise, nor could I will my legs to obey my commands. I was transfixed to the spot as they moved ever closer, bloody hands groping, hideous faces smiling.

Suddenly, I felt a hand clasp itself around my own. I turned my head, expecting to see one of those demonic, smiling things. Instead, I was greeted by the sight of two striking emerald green eyes.

It was her.

I opened my mouth to try and say something, but was drowned out by the jarring dissonance of the creatures approaching me. Wordlessly, she pulled me out of my paralysis, led me to the door, and out of the office.

She guided me past the front desk, from which the mutilated face of Samantha Clarke observed me. I tore my eyes away from such a sight, it was too horrifying to behold for more than a second.

She ushered me through the revolving doors and out into the open air. Except.

Everything was wrong.

It was all distorted. The sky, the buildings, even the people were all deformed. They were blurred, like a badly rendered image.

She led me past columns of faceless, malformed silhouettes of people. The deafening pandemonium of voices from earlier had died down, and was now replaced by a constant, eerie whispering, with the occasional laugh or cry being audible. I had never been a religious man. But this place looked like Hell.

We travelled through this purgatory for some time, before we arrived outside the indistinct form of a building. I quickly recognised it as St. Murphy's Community College, the largest high school in the region. This was evidently where she went to school. But why did she bring me here?

Before I knew it, I was being taken inside the school gates and ushered up the gnarled courtyard towards the mangled mass that resembled a building.

Time passed rapidly, and having made our way up several irregular sets of stairs, she was leading me down a deserted corridor. We stopped in front of a crooked door. Without speaking, she opened it, and gestured for me to enter. I stumbled into the room, still utterly disturbed by what I was witnessing.

I stopped. There were more people in this classroom. I quickly scanned their faces for the repulsive designs I had seen in my office earlier on, but was relieved to see normal human eyes and mouths.

There were now six people in the room including Monika and I. There were three girls sitting around a desk, seemingly frozen in their motion.

No? Is that?

I immediately recognised Sayori as one of them. She wore that telltale smile on her face that I remembered from our meeting in the park. There were two other girls, one appeared mature and introverted, with long flowing lavender hair, and intense violet irises. The other looked fiery, and of very small stature. She possessed a shock of pink hair, and startling, salmon – pink eyes. She, frozen in motion too, was pointing in an accusatory fashion at the girl with the purple hair. Accompanying them was another person, a boy. He had mop of dark brown hair and a pair of coppery irises that provided him with a vacant expression. Was this Monika's Literature Club?

I turned back to the girl with the green – eyes. She looked sadly at the group assembled around the table. We stood there in silence for what seemed like an aeon, soaking up the cold whispers that drifted aimlessly round the room. Eventually, I built up the courage to say something.

"Why did you bring me here?" My voice had a strange, muffled quality to it, but was audible nonetheless. Monika ignored me and continued to stare at the group sat round the table. I was beginning to get frustrated now. I had no clue what was happening. I took Monika by the shoulders and forced her to concentrate on me.

"Monika, what is going on?!" I yelled at her. It didn't have the intended effect. It was as though there was a scarf wrapped around my mouth, such was the muffled quality of my voice. Nevertheless, she at least seemed to register what I had said. She grabbed my forearm and pulled me over to a table. Pulling up a chair she sat me down, before making her way to the desk at the front of the classroom and grabbing a sheet of paper. She hurried back, and sat down, fishing a pen out of her school blazer.

She began to write.

At first I thought she was writing a poem. She put a heading on the paper: 

_os-command/accessrenpy_

That's when I realised this was no poem.

She stopped writing and looked up at me, an unhappy expression on her face.

"Monika…" Ignoring me she turned away and continued to write. 

_renpyfile/select(characters)_

 _renpyfile/select([background]characters)_

What on earth was she doing? Was this some intricate way of telling me what was wrong? A form of code in order to get me to understand something? 

_renpyfile/select(DrFAlcwyn . Ichr)_

That was my name. What was she doing writing my name? I scanned the page, looking at what she had written so far. What on earth was "renpy"? 

_renpyfile/accesscommand(DrFAlcwyn . Ichr)_

She turned to look at me once more. She mouthed something to me. I couldn't quite make out what it was, but it looked like something along the lines of "Remember." She focused her attention once more on the page. To my horror, writing began to appear on the white sheet of paper, without any intervention on the part of Monika whatsoever. This writing was nothing like her spidery scrawl, it was mechanical, methodical, typed.

 _ **renpycommand/fileaccess(DrFAlcwyn . Ichr)  
**_ _ **{Confirm}**_ _ **  
**_

Without hesitating, Monika wrote down an answer in response.

 _os-command:_

 _{Yes}_

Suddenly, a searing pain shot down my spine. The distorted classroom began to peel away, revealing an abyss-like blackness beneath its walls. Within no time whatsoever, the entire fabric of reality appeared to have been broken down. It floated away, like seeds off a Dandelion.

All that remained were me, the desk, the paper, and Monika. I clutched the back of my head and rubbed it as she scrawled down something else on the paper. Without warning, a computerized black box materialised in front of the desk. It resembled one of those coding systems I had seen the technicians using when they were setting up my computer in my office. Writing, or typing, began to appear along this black box. 

**DrFAlcwyn . Ichr**

My name. What did ".Ichr" stand for? It resembled something I'd seen before, to do with the various computers I had used over the years. It was almost like… a file?

A jumbled mass of letters and numbers began to materialize underneath my name. 

U2lnbmlmaWNhbmNlOg0KQmFja2dyb3VuZCBDaGFyYWN0ZXINCk5hbWU6IA0KRnJlZGVyaWNrIEFsY3d5biAoRHIpDQpBZ2U6DQpUd2VudHktU2l4DQpIZWlnaHQ6DQo1JzExJycvMTgwY20NCldlaWdodDoNCjg5a2cNCk9jY3VwYXRpb246DQpQc3ljaGlhdHJpc3QNClBoeXNpY2FsIENoYXJhY3RlcmlzdGljczoNCkhhaXIgQ29sb3VyIC0gQmxvbmRlDQpFeWUgQ29sb3VyIC0gSGF6ZWwNCkZyYW1lIC0gV2VsbC1CdWlsdA== 

I stared at the ever expanding text in bewilderment. I turned to Monika for some sort of explanation. She looked back at me forlornly. Seeing my confused expression, she motioned for me to look at the paper on the desk. In the margin she had written a single word.

 _Code_

Was she trying to tell me that these constantly increasing lines of numbers and letters were a form of… encryption? Like in a computer file? Ok.

Why was there a computer file about me?

This made no sense.

I must be dreaming.

But even I couldn't convince myself that my subconscious was imaginative enough to think up such an elaborate dream. Come to think of it, the word "nightmare" would be much more appropriate.

I hadn't realised how utterly silent this void was, until a voice broke it. It had ethereal qualities, as though spoken by some sort of angelic figure.

"He's here." I looked up to find Monika standing in front of the desk. Instinctively, I recoiled in shock, jumping to my feet. I soon realised my worries were unwarranted, she appeared to be staring right through me.

"Who's here?" I asked. Despite the persistent muffled tones of my voice, the shakiness was still audible, a testament to my fear.

"He's arriving. Soon. He'll be here."

"What are you talking about?" I received no reply. Her eyes once full of life now appeared to take on a glazed appearance. I grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her up against the desk.

"Monika… WHO?!" She looked as though she was in some sort of trance. I was closer than I had ever been to her before right now. I could feel her shallow breaths against my face. Her green eyes, despite their glassy look, still appeared enchantingly beautiful. She looked terrified and broken at the same time. Little pools of tears were beginning to form above her eyelids. They increased in volume, and flowed over and down onto her cheeks. I hated seeing her like this. Gently, I moved my hand to her face. Using my thumb, I wiped away the idle tears dripping down her visage. Even in the strange semi-darkness of this oblivion, I noticed something wrong about her tears. The hue, the consistency, it seemed off. I brought my hand back up to my face to inspect it. 

Blood. 

I looked back at Monika. Crimson blood was streaming down her face from her eyes. Immediately, I let go of her, backing away. Whilst she hadn't been looking at me before, she stared at me now. She opened her mouth.

"It begins today." Her voice was strange, altered, slightly hoarse, and chilling.

"What...the fuck."

"He's arrived. The Reckoning. It's upon us." Her cheeks were now stained with blood, giving her a demonic appearance. Her cryptic language didn't help either.

"Monika…"

"There's no point in turning back now, is there?" She looked at me for affirmation.

"I… don't know." She paused, appearing to think. Eventually, she spoke once more.

"Do you honestly believe you can help me?"

"Yes. I do." She stopped, looking at me incredulously. Then, she laughed. Not the kind, sweet laugh I had heard many times during our sessions together. No. This was a cruel, pitiful laugh. Turning, she began to circle the desk, making her way towards me.

"You fight for a lost cause Dr Frederick Alcwyn." She spat my name as she arrived in front of me.

"You could never help me." She stressed the word "you", as if my believing that I could aid her was some sort of insult to her. I was utterly shocked.

"Why?"

"Because he never intended you to."

"What? "He"? Who the fuck is "he"?" Monika didn't answer, and simply continued to stare at me with what looked like contempt.

"Monika… look. I don't know what's going on, but… I know I can help you, you just have to listen to me. Please!" I grabbed hold of her hands. "I don't know for sure what you're going through right now, but I promise you, you're not alone! Me, your parents, your friends, we're all with you. We can get through this Monika, together. You just have to let me help you." Her expression softened. Her temperament seemed to undergo a change.

"Thank you… Frederick. I appreciate what you're doing." She pulled her hands out of my grip.

"I'm sorry. You just can't help me. That would go against everything." What the hell is she talking about?

"Monika…"

"No. He only made you so you could keep me sane before..." She paused and looked down at her feet. "It doesn't matter, now he's here, your purpose is fulfilled."

"What are you…" She interrupted me.

"Forget about me, forget about all of this. Go back to your old life and enjoy it while you still can. You don't have long left before it'll all come crashing down around you." With one last solemn look, she turned away and began to walk off into the shadows.

"Monika, wait!" She stopped.

"Oh, I almost forgot." She turned to face me. "Don't bother trying to help her. You're wasting your time. She was never meant to survive Act One." Was she referring to Sayori? What the hell was Act One?

"No… Sayori… I can help her Monika. I want to help her. Just like I want to help you!" She laughed sadly.

"Of course you do. You can't help yourself. Wanting to give the saddest people a chance to be happy, it's why you became a psychiatrist in the first place." Turning once more, she began to walk off into the darkness. As she faded out of view, she spoke once more.

"After all, it's in your programming."

* * *

I lashed out into the viscid semi-darkness of three o'clock in the morning. I found myself struggling to breathe. Wrestling with covers, I tore them off and scrambled out of my bed. I stumbled over to the window and threw it open, letting the cool night air flood into my room. I focused on normalising my breathing.

In through the nose. One, Two, Three.

Hold. One, Two, Three.

Out through the mouth. One, Two, Three.

I began to come back to my senses. I was in my bedroom. I had just awoken from…

A nightmare. Yes, that was it, a bad dream. A terrible dream, it was awful. I remember it being horrific. It was about…

Great.

I couldn't even remember what it was about. All I knew was that it had been a very, very bad dream. I walked out of my room and downstairs to get some water.

As I came back up to my room, I realised I wouldn't be getting anymore sleep tonight. I flicked the lights on, and picked up the book I was reading. "The Portrait of Markov" it was called. A psychological horror novel. It had been recommended to me by a friend. I hadn't really got into it yet, but my friend insisted that I keep reading, I was close to the good bit apparently. As I climbed back into bed, I noticed a distinct rustling from under the covers. Lifting them up, I found a piece of paper.

"What the hell?" Written on it was a paragraph of utter gibberish: 

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 

Was this?

Memories began to flood back to me.

I reached for my phone.

I knew someone who might be able to help me with this.


End file.
